Eight
by SmartyMcSmartle
Summary: This is an angst-y one-shot dedicated to all those affected by today's terror event in Boston, Massachusetts. A story about an eight-year-old who has been through too much for most people. Includes two OC's.


**A/N: If you haven't heard, at 2:50pm today EST, three people were killed and over one hundred people were injured because of an attack during the Boston Marathon. One of the deceased was an eight-year old boy. As of now, the United States government is calling this a terror event. Many major cities around the world are on alert.**

**This is a one-shot to honor the people affected, especially the eight-year-old (hence the title). My heart goes out to those that were injured, and the families of the killed. I hope that the people who did this are disgusted with themselves, hurting innocent people like this. I hope justice will be served. I hope that you like this one-shot.**

**Read and Review!**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Percy Jackson, Carnival, or Guinness Book of World Records.**

_The worst thing in my life has happened. It happened when I turned eight. My father died brutally, without warning, without meaning, without a fight. But let me explain a little bit more._

_My father loves the sea. When I was four, he started to build a ship that would be able to cut through the waves of the Atlantic in less than two days. It was a beautiful ship; small and fast. He built in in two years, finishing on my sixth birthday._

_That's when I found out he named the ship after me, made it for me. It was probably the best birthday gift on the world, to have something so precious to my dad be made for me. He said that even though he made it for me, I wouldn't be allowed to captain it for quite some time._

_This ship was mostly blue and silver, with white colored sea foam painted on the side. Seagulls and owls were painted on the cabin. The inside had pure white columns and arches. It seemed bigger inside than it actually was._

_He tried for the record six months after my birthday, almost beating the record, he missed it by seven minutes because a huge Carnival cruse ship decide that it was more important than my father's small, record-breaking speedboat. I decided I'd never take a Carnival cruise ever in my life._

_Anyways, that was the first attempt. The second attempt was more than an attempt: it was a success._

_He ran in great conditions. Nobody got in his way. He finished in forty-seven hours, fifty-six minutes, and thirty-eight seconds. I've decided those are my lucky numbers. Forty-seven, fifty-six, and thirty-eight. You know, I just now realize that they're all numbers three through eight._

_Anyways, after that, my parents celebrated. They took me out to diner at a nice Chinese restaurant. Then, we had cake, which was made by my grandmother. It was blue cake, blue frosting, and silver roses. Then, we played board games._

_The best part is that the next day, my father took me out for my first ride in my boat. We were on the sea for hours. My dad showed me all the wonders of the ocean._

_This also taught me why we didn't eat fish. They smell bad when they're dead, they taste bad when they're dead, and they are such majestic creatures when they are alive. Why would anyone want to hunt and eat them?_

_On my seventh birthday, my mother announced that I was going to have a younger sister in three months. The next three months were agony in my mind. They seemed like years to me instead of months. And when she was introduced to me, I almost cried. Almost. Boys don't cry, so I didn't. Her name was like music to my ears. Hannah Chase-Jackson. My name and her name sound nice to the ears. Garret and Hannah Chase-Jackson._

_But eight months later, she died of the whooping coughs. My father emerged himself in his sailing, my mother in my education._

_It was the third attempt that was what killed my father. He was becoming an extremely famous sailor, and he was world-renown. His ship was better, and he slightly changed the interior. He was trying for the record on my eighth birthday. The Guinness Book of World Records judge was a normal looking man. He had light skin and bright green eyes. His hair was light brown and he had a British accent. His tie was straight and his clothes neatly pressed.  
Nobody even dared to check his suitcase._

_Nobody knew it contained an explosive. Nobody knew he was a part of Al-Qaeda. Nobody new he was going to kill my father. And so, on my eight birthday, my father was killed by a terrorist._

_Another eight months passed by, my mother slowly deteriorating during the period of time. How I wish that she'd let me on to how much she was deteriorating. On the eight month anniversary, I found my mother, lying in a pool of blood, a black knife sticking out of her chest. Her normally-stormy grey eyes were dull and her body was slack. I read the note she left me._

Garret

I love you, but it is too painful for me to look at you after your father died. Remember me, and remember your father. I will see you when you get to Hades, Garret.

Mom

_I cried in my pillow for what seemed like days. I fell into a restless sleep. I let my life go on for seven days, not telling anybody about the body in my mother's bedroom. I was in a deep, dark depression. My friends noticed, but they never got a word out of me._

_On the eighth day, I collapsed onto my bed, my mind sucked dry of emotions. When I looked back at the clock, it was seven at might. So, I decided to write this note, explaining my justifications for my actions. As I look at my mother, a tear drips onto her face. I've swallowed my emotions and I've decided to let my life play out. I hope somebody finds this note._

_Let me tell you this is not a random act, that I couldn't have lived my life to the fullest when I grew up. I am not mentally ill. I'm just being a realistic person. I've planned this inside my head ever since my father died, even though I've never thought I'd actually carry it out._

_I guess I was wrong. I'm not usually wrong. I take after my mother this way, although she would've berated herself if she was wrong. I just accept it, now._

_I thought about how scary it would be to die._

_I am not scarred._

_I thought I'd hate dying._

_I am happy about the concept._

_I thought I'd never be the only Jackson left._

_I am._

_And this is what justifies me being dead. So._

_As the son of Annabeth Chase and Percy Jackson, on this eighth minute, of this eighth hour, on the eighth day, of the eighth month anniversary of my father dying, I bid you a farewell. I am the last to carry on the Chase-Jackson family._

_Garret Jason Chase-Jackson_

He slides the note on the nightstand. The last thing he sees before his eyesight fades to black is the thick, crimson, blood sporting out of his chest.

**A/N: Depressing, I know. Angst, I guess. Yay! First angst fic!**

**Anyways, remember to keep thee people affected by the terror event seven hours ago in your mind. Remember to keep this date in your mind, especially you Massachusetts people. I know this is a big day for you.**

**The terrifying thing to me is that my parents are runners and my dad, that had my dad not injured his foot seven moths ago, could've been running the Boston Marathon. I'm freaked at this moment, sitting on my bed, writing this.**

**This was a very bad ending to what should've been a great day. Or beginning, or whatever, wherever you do live.**

**-Smarty**


End file.
